


The Greatest of These Is Love

by katherine1753



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Illness, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, terrorexefest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26206174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katherine1753/pseuds/katherine1753
Summary: "A proposal can be a bible passage, John Bridgens, and scurvy" - Rorret Smh twitterA semi-fix-it fic. Bridgens does what he can on the long trek South to take care of his beloved Henry as they hope and wait for rescue.
Relationships: John Bridgens/Harry Peglar
Comments: 11
Kudos: 42
Collections: @terror_exe Flash Fest





	The Greatest of These Is Love

**Author's Note:**

> I am taking some liberties with things (order of events, timing, etc) but this is a fix-it fic and I cannot bear to not write a happy ending. Enjoy!

John Bridgens hasn’t lost count of how many days they have been walking, how many days the small remainder of the crew has been hauling what little of their lives they could fit into the boats-turned-sleds, how many days they have been pushing themselves beyond their limits in the hopes of making it to rescue. He hasn’t lost count. But he does not like to dwell upon the number. Not when each day, the length of their haul is shorter in miles but the same in hours. Not when each day the number of men taking ill keeps increasing. And truthfully, perhaps, they all are ill, and it is only a matter of time before death takes them all. Bridgens knows about the scurvy and how it is ailing most of the men, and Dr. Goodsir had told him about the lead. It was a wonder that any of them were still alive, a wonder that the small group of them left were still themselves.

He sighs as he trudges alongside his shipmates, attached to makeshift harnesses and ropes, tugging the too-heavy boats of desperately needed supplies and the few men who were too sick to walk across the frozen expanse and rough, rocky terrain. He glances at Henry Peglar beside him, his Henry, his light in this darkness, and leans a little harder into his own harness in the hopes that it would lessen the load a bit for Henry. He knows it is futile, that it will not make a difference, but he does it anyway. And perhaps that is an effect of the scurvy, or the lead, but he is strong enough to continue on doing so, and so he shall. 

Henry’s breaths beside him come faster than they had the day before, and the day before that. Shallower. Like he can’t get quite enough air into his lungs. All the men are exhausted. To haul the entire day, and spend the nights in fitful sleeps and nervous watches when they need deeper rest and better care than he and Dr. Goodsir can provide, it is slowly killing them. Along with the scurvy. And the lead. And the exposure. And the Tuunbaq, of course. But the bit of hope they have for a rescue keeps them going. And their Captain, God bless him, has managed to keep morale up amongst the men. 

Mr. Blanky leads the way, unable to haul with his leg, and his slower pace is still faster than the rest of them can pull. Hickey had disappeared with a group of the men the night before last, and between that and the Tuunbaq attack, their numbers were much more scarce. They continue to pull. It’s an upward slope today, even more difficult with their meager numbers. But they continue, the Captain’s speech from the day before still ringing in their ears. Friendship and bravery, carrying on for those who have been lost. Onward. South. They continue on. And then, Fitzjames collapses. 

Crozier orders them to stop, everyone is worried. He complains of the heat and his old wounds are bleeding. Bridgens knows the signs, it’s only a matter of time for so many more of them. Especially when they are pushing themselves too hard, the loss of the other men was too much, everyone is pulling much more than their weight. The men look afraid, seeing one of their leaders fall. But Crozier reassures them that there is time, reassures James that he has time. 

Bridgens helps the Captain tuck Fitzjames into the front of one of the boats with another sick crewman, and they continue on until the rougher terrain gets worse, the rattling becoming unbearably painful for the sick men’s aching bones. John warns the Captain that the jostling is making it much worse on them. 

They stop for the night when it becomes too hard to go on, too rough for the sick men to handle, too painful to continue to pull. The way is hard and the haul is excruciating. The atmosphere is tense at the camp. They had only made it two thirds of the miles they had hoped to cover that day. Many of the sick are already in their small tents, too weak to be out by the meager fire. At their camp the previous night, Crozier had made the decision to abandon the larger tents, they were too heavy and bulky to continue hauling, and too cumbersome for the men to set up in their exhausted and ill states. He would abandon things, but not men. Bridgens hopes they won’t have to leave behind any more of their supplies, they are stretching things thin as it is. 

Bridgens overhears a few of the men muttering about leaving the sick behind. It makes his heart clench with fear every time he hears it, and there seems to be someone who brings it up every few days, especially on the more grueling ones. Thankfully Crozier always puts a stop to it; he refuses to leave any man behind, they all deserve a chance, and if any of them lost their humanity then what would they have left? 

John leaves the group huddled around the fire and heads to where he had set up the small tent for Henry and himself. Crozier, once they had unpacked and abandoned the large tents yesterday, had ordered two or three men to a tent, though they were meant to comfortably sleep one. Two could fit, but three was tight. He had insisted it was for warmth, for safety, and to keep the sick men attended to. No one had argued. Everyone had understood. Especially when the Captain himself was sharing a tent with Fitzjames and not taking any special treatment, hauling the same shifts just as they were. It would not do to lose any more men, especially when their numbers had dropped so suddenly. Any more and they would have to abandon a whole boat, or haul much longer shifts with no breaks between them, and neither was a reasonable option. 

Tying the tent flap behind him and turning to see Henry’s face, he knows Henry had overheard the talk of being left behind again. John sighs, and sits upon his cot that was pushed right up next to Henry’s, too close to be proper, but could easily be explained away with the cold and Henry’s illness. John tucks his own blanket around Henry, despite his protests, and settles down next to him. 

“If you must leave us behind, John, promise me that you will. For your own sake,” Henry speaks quietly, his soft voice so much rougher these days. It pains John’s heart. 

“I cannot,” Bridgens whispers, letting his hand rest atop Henry’s. 

“If you have a chance of survival you must take it, please, I-” Henry’s voice breaks and he dissolves into a coughing fit, grasping at Bridgens’s hand as he looks at him pleadingly. 

“Shh, shh, dear, you’ve worked yourself up, you’ve got to stay calm, alright?” John comforts. He takes a breath, and Henry tries to match it. “‘ _ Do not urge me to leave you or to return from following you. For where you will go I will go, and where you lodge I will lodge. Your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there will I be buried. May the Lord do so to me and more also if anything but death parts me from you,’”  _ he quotes, stroking his fingers gently over Henry’s knuckles. 

“Ruth?” Henry asks, voice weak. Bridgens nods. “I remember that one,” he smiles faintly. There are tears in his eyes. 

“It’s early days for you,” John says, knowing Henry understands he is talking about the scurvy. “You’ll make it through. You’re doing so well, better than a lot of the men,” he hates to talk this way, but would do anything to reassure Henry, anything to give him hope. “You are strong. And brave. And you will survive,” he whispers. 

Henry continues to cry softly, but finally drifts into an uncomfortable sleep. Bridgens watches him for as long as he can keep his eyes open, wanting every moment that he can have. He knows his words are not as truthful anymore, with Henry’s condition worsening each day. But he cannot bear to give up hope. He cannot bear to lose him. And so he will cherish every moment he can have in the meantime, knowing that each day might be their last. 

A few hours later, he awakens to Henry pulling at his hand fitfully, still half in a dream, a nightmare. “John, please, please, do not leave me,” he begs, not fully aware or awake. And it is agonizing to hear it. John’s heart aches in his chest as he reaches for Henry, carefully, trying to mind the multitude of bruises covering him. 

“Shh, shh,” John whispers, trying to calm him, tucking Henry into his arms. Let them die like this, wrapped around each other, or let them be found out, John no longer cared. His Henry was more important. “‘ _ Where you will go, I will go,’” _ he murmurs against Henry’s temple, pressing the slightest of kisses there, so small he’s not sure if Henry has felt it. But Henry relaxes a little in his arms, and when Bridgens feels the younger man’s breathing calm into the cadence of sleeping breaths, he allows himself to fall back asleep. 

- - - -

Bridgens is tending to the sick in the boat furthest back when it is not his turn to haul. He always feels bad when he hands his ropes to another crewman, they are always smaller or sicker or weaker. He has more stamina, but he knows he is needed even more by those who cannot walk or care for themselves any longer. Dr. Goodsir cannot handle it on his own. He is applying salve to the beaten looking hands of an officer when he hears a shout from the front of the crew. 

“Man down!” Bridgens turns, and his heart stops. Henry has collapsed. He runs, pushing past men. He is terrified. He can’t lose Henry, not now, not like this. He hears Jopson jump down from his place tending the ill in the next boat and follow him. Henry is on his back, gasping for breath, eyes unfocused. 

“Henry!” John falls to his knees, cradles Henry’s head in his hands. Henry’s eyes finally land on his face, gaze finally clearing. He is alive. He is aware. John feels tears in his own eyes and blinks them away. 

“John,” Henry says, a weak and broken smile upon his face. “Can I sleep?” he asks, and with the sadness in his voice John isn’t sure if he truly means sleep or if he is asking permission to die. 

“Yes,” he whispers back, equally broken. “Yes.”

He pets Henry’s hair gently, gently, and turns to the other men who were hauling beside him. “Help me get him up?” They take off their ropes and link Henry’s arms beneath their own, lifting him. He groans in pain and stumbles, unable to stand. Bridgens slides an arm around his shoulders and loops another beneath Henry’s knees, picking him up, holding him close. “No,” he says when the others try to help him. John is aware of the looks in their eyes as he carries Henry to the space in the boat that Jopson has prepared. He knows they suspect, and he knows that they know Henry surely does not have much time left. He cannot stand the pity in their eyes. Jopson helps him lower Henry into the blanket, and John strokes his hair again, careful of the scabs, as the men prepare to begin hauling again. 

Jopson stares up at the sky, a haunted look upon his face as he nervously asks if anyone else can see the bird. Bridgens looks up, afraid Jopson is more ill than he seems. But there is a bird. It is a seagull. They must be heading the right direction. That tiny bit of hope gives the men the strength to continue hauling. 

When they stop for the night, Henry has to be carried to their tent, too weak to stand on his own feet. John tries to tend to his wounds as carefully as possible, new bruises from today’s fall and from being carried along with old wounds long thought healed that are reopening. It hurts to see Henry’s skin so damaged, even from John just carrying him to a boat. John dabs a cool cloth on his head, knowing Henry’s headaches are worse just from the way his eyes squint ever so slightly in the dim light of the tent. He strokes his cheek as gently as he can, mindful of Henry’s aching teeth. His wounds are not healing, no matter what Bridgens tries and no matter what Dr. Goodsir can pull together from their dwindling supplies. 

Henry watches helplessly, eyes sad in the darkening light. “Why do you stay?” he asks after a while. “Why do you help me, when you know I...you know how this goes,” he looks away, not wanting to see the pain John knows must be showing in his eyes.

“Love,” Bridgens says simply. Honestly. 

“John,” Henry whispers.

“‘ _ I have found the one whom my soul loves, _ ’” he clasps Henry’s hand. “It is still early for you,” Bridgens lies. And he knows Henry knows, but Henry’s other hand pats the top of his once and rests there, a small, sad smile upon his face. 

- - - -

Their trek across the arctic continues, Bridgens alternating between pulling and doctor duties, and Henry riding along. Every time John walks past Henry to take up his place hauling the first boat, he sees the look on Henry’s face, upset that he cannot help and starting to give up more and more with every passing moment. Every time John walks past Henry, he touches his hand briefly or gives his hair a pat as he quickly checks on him, murmuring gentling words. He cherishes the few moments he has every few hours to tend to Henry’s wounds, because he can touch him and feel that he is alive and have a small conversation, instead of wondering if his dear Henry has passed while Bridgens hauls, unable to turn around and check on him as often as his brain begs him to. 

“‘ _ I thank my God every time I think of you,’ _ ” John says softly as he walks past Henry’s boat to the one Captain Fitzjames is riding in. He rests his hand on the edge, looking into Henry’s eyes. Henry sets his hand atop his for a brief moment before John must continue walking. 

“I am weak and I cannot help anymore,” Henry mumbles later when they stop to make camp for the night, still short on their miles for the day. “I am a burden. How can you love me? I am holding you back.”

Bridgens sighs. “‘ _ Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot wash it away.’  _ Henry, you are not the only man who is sick. You are strong. You are brave. You will survive,” he takes Henry’s hand, brushing his thumb across the parts that do not have scabs. “And you are so important to me. I will do anything I can for you, alright, love?” Henry nods reluctantly, and John knows he’s won, this time at least. “Mr. Blanky thinks we are getting close. Just a few more days and we can make our final camp and wait for rescue. We can go back to England and you and I could...we’d never have to set foot on another damned boat ever again,” John says earnestly, perilously close to asking Henry to run away with him when,  _ if, _ they make it home. 

“Sleep now, Henry,” he pets his hair gently. “You need your rest. Get better, for me,” he pleads softly. John pets him until Henry finally drifts off to sleep and presses a small kiss to his forehead, hoping his chapped lips don’t scrape his fragile skin. He lays down next to Henry, giving him as much warmth as he can, but afraid to do much more than wrap an arm around him gently in fear of causing more bruising. 

Bridgens finally falls into a restless sleep, waking every hour or so afraid that Henry will stop breathing beside him. Every hour he checks, and every hour Henry’s shallow breaths continue. He is alive, they are alive, they must stay alive. They are so close. So close, and not a one of them knows how far. Rescue could be days away, or months, or never. Bridgens prays that a party has been sent to find them, that the Captain’s faith that their rescue is coming will be true, that Mr. Blanky’s navigation is as accurate as it always is. He dozes fitfully. He checks on Henry. He prays. 

- - - -

The next morning, Crozier sends the most able men on foot in a few different directions Blanky thinks are best, while the rest of them remain at the camp to rest and care for the sick. It is a good idea, and Bridgens suspects part of the reason for resting is that Captain Fitzjames had been having more issues with his old bullet wounds the past few days. Regardless of the reasoning, the men who get to go on foot are thankful for a day without hauling, the men staying at the camp are thankful for extra time to recover, and John is thankful to spend most of the day with Henry instead of just fleeting moments. He alternates between assisting Dr. Goodsir during Henry’s naps and spending time with Henry in their tent. 

Henry is getting weaker. The petechiae and bruises cover a majority of his skin, he is in pain almost constantly, and his eyes...sometimes when John looks at him he sees his Henry, and sometimes his eyes are so distant, so far away, that he’s afraid he’s lost him for good. 

“I love you too, you know,” Henry murmurs during one of the moments Bridgens is with him in the tent. “I haven’t said, before, but I do, I need you to know, in case, in case...” his words come out in small bursts, and John takes his hands carefully. 

“I know, Henry. I know,” John says, smiling through the ache in his heart. “‘ _ My beloved is mine and I am his,’ _ ” he says, and reaches a hand up to pet Henry’s hair, blinking back tears as some strands come out in his hands, new drops of blood on his love’s scalp, and he gentles his touch further still. “You will be alright. I’ll be here, I’ll stay with you.”

- - - -

The search party that was out the latest is the only one to come back successful, finally,  _ blessedly,  _ a sighting of shoreline. Very far in the distance still, multiple days to haul, but  _ close.  _ The relief among the men is palpable, and the next morning they haul in that direction, hope leading them all. 

“I will not make it,” Henry says, sounding as if he’s thought about this for quite some time and has resigned himself to his fate. He and Bridgens are in their tent and it is late, the men were able to pull for longer today with a known end in sight bolstering their spirits. “Why do you love me, John? How can you? I am holding you back, holding all of us back...and if rescue comes I will not be alive for it, there’s no way,” his voice is so small and it breaks John’s heart. 

“The reasons why I love you are too numerous to list,” John gives him a teary smile. “But my love for you is the greatest thing about me. You are everything, Henry, and you will survive this. We will survive.” He tucks Henry into his blankets as comfortably as he can. “‘ _ If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing,’  _ You will make it,” he says again, not daring to believe anything otherwise. 

“‘ _ If I do not have love, I am nothing,’” _ Henry repeats. “I know that one,” he says quietly. “Corinthians.”

Bridgens nods. “Just a few days more, Henry. A few days and we’ll be alright.”

- - - -

A few days, and they have made it to the site. There is not much there: the stretch of the vast expanse, and the sea. But though it is mostly empty, it is still the sea, waves flowing and unfrozen. There are a few bits and remainders here and there from the old outpost, useful for making their permanent camp, and the men get to work setting up better shelters. Excitement fills the air as Lieutenant Little finds a fishing net in one of the outpost cairns; finally there is hope for a decent meal. 

Henry is nearly unconscious now, his fever plaguing him more and more as the days go on. Bridgens isn’t sure if he’s fully aware that they’ve made it, that they’re safe, that there’s hope for rescue. John sets up their cots in their customary side-by-side formation, tucking the blankets around a shaking Henry, reassuring him over and over that they’re done walking, done with the endless days of hauling across the arctic, that there is truly hope for them now. In his better moments, Henry can manage a small smile, his pained gums not allowing much more than that. John knows his teeth must be feeling wrong in his mouth, his mouth dry no matter how much he drinks. Henry keeps trying to refuse the water Bridgens brings him, deliriously saying he doesn’t want to take any away from the men who are walking, and John has to remind him, again and again, that they’re finished. 

After a few days of proper rest and as much fish as he can manage to eat, Henry is doing a little better, aware of his surroundings now and the happiness outside in the camp. Bridgens even carries him out to sit with everyone for meals, and the camaraderie amongst the small group of remaining men from the expedition is strong. Even if it takes months for another ship to come, they have a much higher chance of surviving until then, provided that they can overcome the scurvy and lead poisoning. 

John knows Henry still struggles with his illnesses, and not just physically. Most nights he cries, many are plagued with feverish nightmares, and it’s all Bridgens can do to hold him and calm him down. Some of his convulsions are so strong John worries Henry will be gone before he stops shaking. 

Tonight Henry cries because he has lost hope. “There is nothing here,” Henry weeps into John’s shoulder, leaning into any touch John gives him even though it pains his bruises. “How does anyone have hope, why have faith, why do we all continue on when we’re just going to die here?” 

Bridgens hushes him gently, petting him as softly as possible and adjusting the blankets around him. “Mr. Blanky expects a ship will be here within a fortnight, we have arrived just in time,” he tries, but he knows no matter the length of time it will feel hopeless to Henry. “‘ _ And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.’  _ We all have faith in each other, the crew. We have faith that Mr. Blanky knows the ship routes and schedules. We have faith that we are safe now,” he lists carefully, rocking Henry gently in his arms. 

“We have hope that rescue parties have been sent for us. We have hope that they will be here soon. We have hope we will return home.” Henry sniffles against him, beginning to calm. “And love...we have love for each other, all of us, we are brothers now through this journey. And I have love for you, more love than I have ever had in my life, more love than I knew could be possible,” he murmurs. 

Henry’s hands clasp at him weakly. “Love you, too.”

“Marry me,” John says before he can stop himself, knowing it’s impossible. “Marry me. I would never let you be cold again. We could find somewhere together, anywhere you want to go. No more boats, no more treks, no more cold. You would be warm, and safe, and loved.” The words rush out of him desperately. 

“John,” Henry’s voice is broken, weak, but more from emotion than from the scurvy.

“Marry me,” John whispers, again. “Our next adventures could be through books.”

“Would you read them to me?” Henry asks, and John feels tears escaping his eyes. Henry has hope, and it is all he could want. 

“Of course, Henry,” he says. “Of course. My beloved. You have fought so well, I’m so proud of you, we’re so close now. I cannot bear to live without you by my side. Marry me,” he says again. “Henry, please, say yes.” 

“Yes,” Henry replies, he doesn’t have the strength to nod, and Bridgens feels him blinking tears against his neck. 

- - - -

A ship arrives, just as Mr. Blanky had predicted: James Clark Ross and his crew on a rescue mission. Joyful reunions are had between the men still strong enough to rush to meet the boats approaching the shore and the sailors that have been sent to find them. 

The men begin to pack up what little they have left for the last time. The ship has brought letters from family members, food, new clothes, medicines, and doctors, and the men cry from relief. Bridgens watches as Captains Crozier and Ross help Fitzjames into the next boat headed to the ship. He smiles and turns to get Henry. 

In their tent, Henry is not doing well. He has been holding on, for John’s sake, and John knows this. But now, with rescue here, Bridgens’s hope is renewed. “Henry, the next boat out is ours, come,” Bridgens says, relief finally coming to him. 

Henry does not move, but coughs weakly. John will carry him, he’ll always carry him if he has to. “I don’t know if I can,” Henry whispers. 

“Henry,” John says again. “The rescue ship is here, they’re waiting for us, it’s time to go home. You can’t leave me now, not after all of this. Please, come with me. I’ll help you.”

“‘ _ Where you go I will go,’”  _ Henry mumbles back, trying to sit up. 

Bridgens scoops him up as carefully as he can. “‘ _ Arise my darling, my beautiful one, come with me. See, the winter is past,’ _ ” he whispers and presses a kiss to Henry’s temple before carrying him out of their tent for the last time. 

When they are pulled up onto the ship, the deck is full of commotion, everyone rushing around to get the men taken care of. The sicker ones are taken below immediately for treatments and the rest are given a meal and lemon tinctures until it is their turn. John is loath to let go of Henry, especially when Henry reaches for him as he is carried away on a stretcher, but John knows there isn’t room for him in the sickbay yet. It breaks his heart to watch him go, but the doctors on the ship are much more capable than he is and they do not know of their attachment to each other. 

They end up being separated for longer than either one of them can bear, though it is probably just mere hours. By the time John finally finds his way to the bunk he gets to share with Henry (Ross thankfully seemed to understand the Terror and Erebus’s crew being anxious to be apart from one another, allocating all the larger cabins for them to pair up with each other), Henry is in one of the beds, freshly bandaged and smelling of citrus. He looks as if he’s been keeping himself awake for John’s sake. He smiles at him, and falls asleep. 

Bridgens breathes a sigh of relief, settling into his own bed, which is much further away from Henry’s than he would like, than he’s gotten very used to. He watches Henry’s chest rise and fall with each breath until exhaustion overcomes him and he joins him in sleep. 

John wakes up in what he feels like is just a few hours later, but judging from the faint light of sunrise in the window and the fact that he can no longer see the shoreline, he knows it must have been a much longer sleep. He looks over at Henry, and is happily surprised to see him awake and sitting up on his own, looking back at John with a small, content smile on his face. His skin already has a bit of life coming back to it, and his eyes are his own. 

“John,” Henry says, smiling wider as his eyes fill with tears. “We’re going home.”

“Yes, Henry,” John says, relieved. 

“We made it,” Henry cries. 

Bridgens crosses the room and sits beside Henry on his bunk, taking his hands. “We made it,” he confirms. 

“I hope you have a lot of rather boring books waiting for us at home,” Henry says, a shy glance in John’s direction. “I think I’m quite done with adventures for a while.” 

John laughs with relief, with joy. Hope, faith, and love. He cups Henry’s face gently in his hands, thumbs caressing his cheeks, and pulls him close. His lips are chapped, but finally warm. His kiss tastes of lemon. And it is full of love. 

**Author's Note:**

> Bible passages in this fic:  
> Ruth 1:16-17  
> Song of Songs 3:4  
> Philippians 1:3  
> Song of Songs 8:7  
> Song of Songs 2:16  
> 1 Corinthians 13:1-3  
> 1 Corinthians 13:13  
> Song of Songs 2:10-11


End file.
